Everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded the little group
that met day after day among the rocks. Christie read aloud, while
the children revelled in sand, shells, and puddles; Miss Tudor spun
endless webs of gay silk and wool; and Mr. Fletcher, with his hat
over his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as he
watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight, and listened
to the pleasant voice that went reading on till all his ills and
ennui seemed lulled to sleep as by a spell.
A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to thinking. She knew
that Uncle Philip was not fond of "the darlings;" it was evident
that good Miss Tudor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting,
was not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he came
for her sake alone. She laughed at herself for this fancy at first;
but not possessing the sweet unconsciousness of those heroines who
can live through three volumes with a burning passion before their
eyes, and never see it till the proper moment comes, and Eugene goes
down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr. Pletcher found her
society agreeable, and wished her to know it.
Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and she found
herself showing that she liked it by those small signs and symbols
which lovers' eyes are so quick to see and understand,--an artful
bow on her hat, a flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the
most becoming arrangement of her hair.
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